


Don't Look Now

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley hates the 14th century, Domesticity, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, GASP, Hand Jobs, I Want To Believe, I promise this ends happily folks, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's about the 6000 years, Kissing, Love, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Tenderness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism, Wrist Kissing, arm kissing?, breaking and entering but make it sexy, listen I feel like Shakespeare would be cool about fanfiction, miracle lube, misuse of Shakespeare lines, misuse of phoneboxes, shoulder kissing??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Crowley – he doesn’t make a single sound. Almost doesn’t breathe at all. Is this what humans feel like in churches, when they drop their eyes to the ground and respect the silence by speaking in murmurs? He reverently presses his lips to the delicate skin in the crook of the angel’s elbow, and it feels like a prayer.He chances a glance up, sees nothing but the taut lines of Aziraphale’s bare neck as the angel keeps his face turned away from him. Not disgust, then – permission. Permission to touch, as long as Aziraphale doesn’t have to bear witness to it.🔶Crowley notices a little quirk Aziraphale has - sometimes, the angel will keep his eyes closed and refuse to acknowledge what's happening around him.At times, he does it when there's something he doesn't want to see.Other times, when he's indulging in something he's not supposed to.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 529
Kudos: 1397
Collections: Bittersweet Good Omens, Courts GO Re-Reads, Top Aziraphale Recs, kashiichan's favourites





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeetease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeetease/gifts).



> You guys, I'm ridiculously PROUD of this fic. It took so long and I worked on it so hard, and I think it came out pretty damn well.
> 
> This first chapter is mature rather than explicit, but boy howdy do we earn that explicit rating from chapter 2 on 😏
> 
> This is already all written out so if you want to get updates you can either subscribe or check the posting schedule at the end of each chapter!
> 
> With a huge THANK YOU to [Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley) for being my friend, and sitting smack dab in the middle of the Venn diagram between Cute and Cool and Hot. Also, for very lovingly betaing this fic! :D
> 
> And Kaz, well.  
> I did say I'd find a way to thank you. Here's a start.

Maybe the angel always had this quirk, but Crawly notices for the first time as they’re both standing by the Ark.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed and his face turned away, refusing to look.

Noah’s family is safe on the boat. Along with the animals – a male and a female of each kind, plus a single unicorn.

When the rain starts, the angel doesn’t stretch his wing over Crawly’s head – can’t, not in front of the humans.

So the two of them stand there, miserable, the rain soaking their clothes, as the humans scramble to seek a shelter from the rain that they won’t find. Their roofs, their houses, their whole villages – will be flooded and erased off the face of the earth.

Crawly doesn’t move because Aziraphale doesn’t. And he suspects Aziraphale won’t move for a long, long time.

_ I gave it away. There are vicious animals. It's going to be cold out there. And she's expecting already. And I said, ‘Here you go. Flaming sword. Don't thank me. And don't let the sun go down on you here’. _

What can a good angel do when he’s all out of flaming swords to give away? What can a single angel do in the face of the wrath of God?

Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed as he stands in the freezing rain, his fingers turning pale, his nails turning purple, his wet curls sticking to his forehead. Crawly stares at the beautiful curve of his neck – the angel’s throat keeps trembling.

“Aziraphale, let’s go,” the demon says, as softly as he possibly can.

“Right,” the angel says, his voice not quite steady. The corners of his mouth quirk into a brief ghost of a smile. “No sense standing here, I suppose.”

He keeps his eyes on his feet as they walk towards the Ark, where both of them will find different ways in. Aziraphale does not raise his gaze once to look at the humans struggling around them, but he knows. He has to know – they’re all going to die.

Crawly decides not to call him out on it.

Aziraphale, on his part, never mentions the ‘rain bow’ ever again.

* * *

It happens again in Rome.

Crowley hadn’t planned to go out for oysters – what he wanted to do was be alone, get drunk, and forget himself for a while. He only manages two out of three.

He’s quite drunk at this point of the night. And – pay attention now – he’s just about to forget himself. Both he and the angel are.

The first oyster made him wince; the second went down a little more easily. Generous doses of something resembling wine helped the whole ordeal quite a lot.

Aziraphale smiles unsteadily, rather inebriated himself, which doesn’t make him any less bright at all. Actually, he’s the first friendly, warm presence in the damp darkness that has been Crowley’s shitty week—month?  _ Year, _ maybe. He’s lost track. Humans come and go, and every assignment from Hell blends into the next. He needs to – he needs to think of a way to make his job more entertaining, before he loses his literally goddamned mind.

Anyway.

Aziraphale is gorgeous and radiant and the first good thing he's seen in a bloody long time. Aziraphale, who was downright giddy upon spotting him in the tavern. Aziraphale, who wanted to  _ tempt him _ to go out for oysters with him – and Crowley had to hide his grin behind his cup.

His head spins, and Aziraphale is fuzzy around the edges. The angel has an elbow on the table and his round, pink cheek cupped in the palm of his hand. He has a big, dumb smile plastered on that pretty face of his, and he’s looking at Crowley, rose-blush lips and pale, fluttering eyelashes. How rude. Doesn’t Aziraphale know Crowley’s a demon? He doesn’t get to have nice things. He shouldn’t be looked at like that. He should  _ never _ be looked at like that. Crowley has to pretend his chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in and burps quietly behind his fist.

God and Satan, they’re so drunk.

Aziraphale is prattling on about something, but Crowley lost track ten minutes ago. The beach? Something about the beach. Near the port. It’s beautiful, he says. Blue water for miles. Or something.

_ You’re beautiful, _ Crowley thinks instead, then blinks twice behind his little dark glasses. He didn’t say that out loud, did he?

It appears he didn’t. Aziraphale is still going, stuttering, giggling over nothing. Crowley finds himself fascinated by the angel’s free hand, the one abandoned on the table. It looks so soft, so warm. Is it? 

Is the rest of Aziraphale as soft and warm as it looks, come to think about it? Could Crowley wrap himself around him, could he ever be welcome? Could he rest his heavy snake head on the angel’s chest, feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat under his scaly throat?

No one has been kind to Crowley in so long. Only this weird, stubborn, fussy angel. Crowley had almost forgotten what it feels like to chat with a friend – to have a friend at all.

…a friend. Are they –  _ friends? _ Or is he going about this all wrong?

The room spins around him and he’s reaching out, his hand coming to rest over Aziraphale’s. Crowley hisses quietly in pleasure behind parted lips. The angel is warm indeed, just as he thought he’d be - hot, even. And so, so soft. But solid under his fingers. Strong. Grounding.

It takes him a beat too long to raise his gaze to Aziraphale’s face. But the angel – he’s turned away. His eyes are closed. He’s – he’s not acknowledging this. Whatever  _ this _ is. He’s refusing to look at it.

Crowley hesitates. He could so easily stay like this for an hour or two or ten.

But then, some rational thought trickles back into his broken, wine stained cup of a brain and he realises what he’s doing.

_ Shit.  _ He pulls his hand back. Stuffs it between his knees for good measure. Coughs, tries to stand.

“I think I’ll go home now,” he slurs.

“Ah… right.” Aziraphale nods, looks back at him now that they’re not touching. Smiling, again – but it’s different now. It’s tense. Polite. Crowley hates  _ polite. _ “Mind how you go.”

* * *

He doesn’t remember when it happened. The year, the place – those are unimportant details. Sometime in the 11th century. Somewhere in what would become the modern Middle East. 

But he remembers, distinctly, Aziraphale standing just outside the battlefield, after the war was over. A war Heaven had wanted and encouraged. And Aziraphale, blood on his shoes, his shaking hands closed into fists, his eyes shut tight against the world.

How could Crowley ever forget?

* * *

Aziraphale is back from Edinburgh, and Hamlet is a great success, so of course they go to see it together. And the angel is so happy and grateful, Crowley almost feels guilty for tossing a coin with tails on both sides.

Almost.

There’s nothing else to do when the show is over except get uproariously drunk together. Crowley  _ loves _ getting drunk with Aziraphale. They can both sober up at any moment, of course, but he so enjoys the act of mimicking humans having fun.

Because they’re having fun together. Right?

They stumble back all the way to Aziraphale’s house, and Crowley knows he’ll do something he shouldn’t before he even gets through the door. It’s just – it’s that kind of night. The wind feels electric and the black sky is too wide above their heads. He feels way too cheerful, and smitten, and stupid.

They’re laughing over nothing at all. Or, well – not nothing, they’re laughing over young John Quiney’s first play.

“A valiant attempt, for a first timer,” Aziraphale concedes, precariously sitting on the edge of his bed, a burst of laughter away from sliding off of it. Crowley would guffaw if he fell over, but he’d help him get back up. He’d help him get back up on the bed, yes. And he wouldn’t even think of what else he would help him with, on that plush bed of his. 

He wouldn’t. He won’t.

“Oh, come on angel, you don’t always have to be so… so…” what’s the word, again? “So  _ angelic.” _ Yep, that’s the word. “It was terrible. Awful! The whole part with the—the ghost seducing the princess… bloody derv—deriva— _ not original _ at all, is my point!” Crowley makes a disgusted noise. 

Aziraphale giggles (giggles!) and extends an arm towards him. “ _If thou an evil spirit art not…_ ” the angel hiccups. “Er… _prove it, kiss my hand._ ”

Crowley frowns for a second. That can’t possibly be how the line went. But – well. Does it matter? He shrugs it off and tries to focus. What happened after the princess presented her hand?

Right.

He slowly lowers himself to his knees. He’s no spirit, and the wooden floor is hard on his knees.

He reaches up, the pads of his fingers barely brushing against the angel’s palm. His hot breath ghosts on the back of Aziraphale’s hand. He doesn’t dare look up.

_ He has to look up. _

Is this still a joke? He felt the air shifting around them the moment he dropped to his knees. Is it just him? Does Aziraphale feel it too, can he sense the static charge building around all them?

He looks up.

Aziraphale has his eyes closed. His eyes closed, and his face turned away from him.

Is it permission? Or is it disgust?

Crowley swallows. He’s always been good at asking the right questions – a curse, in the world they live in.

He’ll do something he shouldn’t do.  _ It’s that kind of night. _ But then – what else should he do? He’s on his knees, the angel’s skin a breath away from his lips. Aziraphale isn’t even looking at him – because he can’t or because he doesn’t want to, the end result’s the same, Crowley is left alone with a decision to make.

He brushes his lips to Aziraphale’s hand. Lightly, as lightly as he can manage while still touching him.

Then, he hesitates. In the play – terrible play, why are they even talking about it – the princess is seduced when she realises the spirit’s lips are warm like a human’s. The ghost then presses kisses to her wrist, along the delicate line of her forearm, in the crook of her elbow, up to her pale shoulder. Finally, he reaches her lips.

Darkness falls on stage and the scene ends.

The quiet twinkle of an angelic miracle brushes against the tip of his nose. Just like that, Aziraphale’s doublet is gone, leaving him in a wide, puffy shirt the colour of butter. Crowley’s mouth waters and he has to take a steadying breath.

The sleeve is long but flowy, easy to push up – all too easy to push up. So he does. Quietly, carefully, like a ghost indeed.

He mimics what he saw at the theatre – he was making fun of the actors, then, but not so now. Now, it seems to be the hardest thing in the world to slowly make his way up the angel’s arm. A snake climbing the forbidden tree, he expects to be smitten by the Almighty at any moment. But he kisses the velvet-soft inside of Aziraphale’s wrist, right over his rushing pulse, and nothing happens.

The city is loud outside the windows, but it’s quiet inside the room, nothing but the angel’s breathing becoming more and more laboured by the second and the slight swish of his elegant sleeve as it’s pulled up to his shoulder.

Crowley – he doesn’t make a single sound. Almost doesn’t breathe at all. Is this what humans feel like in churches, when they drop their eyes to the ground and respect the silence by speaking in murmurs? He reverently presses his lips to the delicate skin in the crook of the angel’s elbow, and it feels like a prayer.

He chances a glance up, sees nothing but the taut lines of Aziraphale’s bare neck as the angel keeps his face turned away from him. Not disgust, then – permission. Permission to touch, as long as Aziraphale doesn’t have to bear witness to it.

And yet – it’s his body. Aziraphale can’t run away from it. Crowley has reached his shoulder, and when he kisses the round curve of it, goosebumps raise on the angel’s skin. A field of sunflowers turning to the sun. Aziraphale inhabits this corporation, and he can feel every single wicked thing that happens to it.

Crowley stops, hesitates. He should kiss the angel’s lips, find out if they taste as sweet as they look. He  _ wants _ to kiss him. Besides, that’s how the play goes: the ghosts kisses the princess on the lips. There’s nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go. They didn’t write the script, they just stumbled into it like drunken moths to the flame. Because any excuse is a good excuse when you want, want,  _ want _ so badly it burns like a hungry, massive black hole inside your chest.

God knows how Crowley  _ wants. _

But not like this. He won’t take Aziraphale by force – not even when Aziraphale himself is giving him tacit permission to do just so. For the shred of self-worth he still has left, Crowley knows he deserves to be kissed willingly, with enthusiasm, or not at all. He won’t—

Aziraphale turns around, cups Crowley’s cheek in his hand, and presses their lips together.

Crowley feels his throat moving around a sob, but no sound comes out.

Time stills for a moment – literally, as he accidentally stops it – and figuratively, because after he’s let it go it still seems like the next few seconds last a lifetime. 

The warm touch of Aziraphale’s mouth stokes a desire Crowley has been desperately trying to smother for thousands of years. He fists Aziraphale’s shirt, trying to brace himself against the rogue wave of sheer want that threatens to sweep him away and take him under. The fingers of his free hand shake, and for a blinding moment he really believes he’s going to push Aziraphale down to the bedding, press a thigh between the angel’s legs, rub himself against his hip like an animal, chase his own pleasure and finally be sated. Would he feel better if he did? His mind would be clearer. And then he could take off their clothes, slowly, piece by piece. Do it again, do it right this time. Let himself truly savour this. Take his time, invent a hundred ways to make the angel beg for more. He would— 

Aziraphale shifts back, and the moment bursts into thin air.

Crowley pulls away.

A parenthesis of madness. It passes as quickly as it came, although it leaves him unsettled. He looks at Aziraphale – the angel’s eyes still stubbornly closed.

Crowley blinks twice. Takes a step back. Straightens himself up.

“Not bad for a first timer, I’ll admit,” he says, his voice just as shaky as he feels. He clears his throat. He presses on, “might be worth seeing what he comes up with next.”

Aziraphale blinks his beautiful blue-green eyes open. It’s a bittersweet feeling to realise he waited for Crowley to signal it was safe to look, that they were back on steady ground.

Now he can pretend nothing happened. With Crowley as his willing accomplice. Is it tender, or is it heart-breaking? The demon feels soft and raw – and also  _ hard _ in a very physical sense.

Aziraphale nods.

“Quite. Yes. We should… next time. See it together, maybe.” He seems to realise what he’s said and rushes to add, “i-it would be a most excellent chance to discuss our respective jobs without anyone suspecting a thing. Definitely.”

“Definitely,” Crowley echoes, trying and failing to keep some mockery out of his voice. He takes a deep breath, forces the alcohol out of his bloodstream, forces himself to sound normal again. “I’ll see you there, then,” he says, and prays to God and Satan and everyone in between that Aziraphale will accept this is where the night ends. Because if Aziraphale doesn’t let him go right now, he might swerve right back and do something stupid, something much more stupid than what he already did. And he really doesn’t know whether they’d come out whole on the other side.

Aziraphale softens, sags, drops his shoulders, lets his full weight fall onto the bed. Relieved or disappointed – Crowley doesn’t know.

“I’ll see you there,” he replies softly, and Crowley leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pulp_fricktion](https://www.instagram.com/pulp_fricktion/) did a WONDERFUL comic of this chapter, in three parts, which you can read [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CAkjieCFWUP/), [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CAle8Wllz-s/), and [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CAnOI3oFnJG/). I promise the ending will make you giggle.


	2. II

“Have you ever wondered…” Aziraphale begins to ask, and they’re not even drunk, not this time, “forget it. Forgive me.”

They’re not drunk, but they might as well be. It’s the 14th century. In Crowley’s humble opinion, it’s been the worst one yet – War and Pestilence have had their fun tearing Europe apart, harvesting millions of lives in the process. Aziraphale told Crowley that Gabriel had been quite proud of how many new souls Heaven had gained, only to deflate upon finding out Hell got more or less the same amount.

 _How does Heaven know so much about what’s going on in Hell?_ Crowley wonders. _How does Hell know so much about what’s going on in Heaven?_

Aziraphale had then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, muttering something about how it surely didn’t make much difference to the humans which side was winning, as they were all rather dead, anyway. And then quickly shut his mouth tight before more treason could slip out. 

Crowley had nodded somberly and said nothing.

But today, he feels dirty and tired and all out of patience, and the words slip out of his mouth without permission.

“What, angel?” He asks, quietly.

He’s exhausted, deep down to the rotten marrow of his bones. The stench of Death permeates everything. It feels like merely a blink passed between watching the humans go to war and seeing them drop like flies under the heavy fist of the Black Plague. He feels the dust from the battlefield still on his skin and his tongue tastes sour in his mouth.

“Nothing. I apologise.” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Crowley is tired, tired, _tired._ Tired of dancing like a trained monkey every time Hell asks something of him. Tired of walking on eggshells around Aziraphale, even though he knows it’s inevitable. He’s just so blessedly _tired._

They met by the river outside the city, where the air is somewhat more breathable and no one will interrupt them. Crowley’s sitting on the damp ground – Aziraphale on a hard white rock that looks uncomfortable as anything.

There’s something soothing and infuriating at the same time about sitting side by side, staring into the water and talking to each other while both of them keep their eyes on the flowing river. Barely enough plausible deniability to feel safe, the tension crackling just underneath the surface.

“Just spit it out, angel,” he sighs, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“Well, it’s just… it is quite difficult, isn’t it? I’m the only angel assigned to Earth at the moment, a-and sometimes… well. I have nobody to talk to. Except you, that is. You’ve been here just as long as I have, you’ve seen everything—and, that is, not in the way Heaven sees everything, from up above.” He looks up, then down at his own hands. “You were walking among the humans. You were here. With me.”

It’s a subdued sort of ramble, and when Crowley glances at him, he can see Aziraphale’s sea-green eyes trembling, as if he can’t find a thing to focus his gaze on. He knows that feeling. Human history goes by so damn fast for an immortal being. Everything feels slippery, everything either too close or too far away.

And then, Aziraphale turns to Crowley and his shaking stills, and Crowley – his heart stops in his chest for a long, single moment – feels like the only fixed point in the angel’s universe.

Aziraphale turns his gaze away and keeps talking, “But it’s always so difficult to meet, we have to plan ahead and… and the risk, of course, cannot ever be completely eliminated… so I found myself wondering, what if you were still—well. You were one of us, once.”

He attempts a brief smile. Crowley only frowns deeper. “A long, long time ago.”

Aziraphale’s smile becomes pained at the edges. “I know, yes. Of course.”

“’Sides,” Crowley continues with a sigh, “even if I were still an angel I wouldn’t be assigned here with you. And you’d have some other demon on your hands. Fancy meeting up with Hastur in deserted clearings and sketchy establishments?”

The way Aziraphale winces at the prospect makes Crowley smirk. 

The angel fidgets with the ring around his little finger. “It’s just been – well, one _hell_ of a century, if you’ll pardon the phrasing.”

“No problem, angel.” Crowley stands up, shaking the dust off his clothes. “It’s almost over, anyway. The next one, eh.” He shrugs. “Can’t be any worse than this one, now can it?”

Aziraphale smiles at that, and Crowley has to close his hand into a fist to stop it from reaching out and helping the angel up from his seat.

“Quite,” Aziraphale says, very softly, staring into the distance for a second before standing up and beaming at Crowley. He looks like he’s just about to say something – something probably tender and therefore _dangerous,_ and Crowley rushes to prevent it.

“Alcohol?” He croaks out, the first thing that pops into his panicked mind.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, takes a breath as if about to speak anyway. He worries at his bottom lip for a moment, breathes out. Glances to the side, blinks exactly twice. Pulls himself back together, gives Crowley another little excruciating smile that makes something in the demon’s chest twist.

“Right, yes. That’d be lovely,” he says, gently, and looks at Crowley out of the corner of his eyes as he passes him by.

Crowley swallows, gives his knees a second or two to feel a little less liquid, and follows him back in town.

* * *

He fucks up on September 23rd, 1793.

They both do.

Crowley has never been a big fan of France. However, having received a commendation about the Reign of Terror, he decided that any demon with a shred of self-preservation left would pop across the Channel for a second, check what was going on, gather a few useful details to put in his next reports, and leave. Just enough to confirm to headquarters that it’s all going according to his very evil, very carefully orchestrated plan.

Even though the only evil, carefully orchestrated plan he’s ever had is letting the humans do as they like and watch from a safe distance while he toys around with some low-level widespread form of mischief, just enough that he doesn’t die of boredom.

Then, as soon as he arrives in Paris, he overhears some sans-culottes laughing about the English gentleman who had the great idea to visit the city docked in frills and silk, and is probably going to be executed in a few hours. _Hair like a cloud,_ they say, _worried about something called ‘paperwork’ – what’s that, anyway?,_ and Crowley’s spine snaps to attention.

The trip into the Bastille is an easy one. He even enjoys it, sauntering in like some kind of fairy tale knight on a mission to rescue his princess.

It’s not hard to find Aziraphale. He is making pleasant conversation with his executioner – of course he is. Crowley miracles himself inside the cell, behind Aziraphale’s back, and when the angel and the human are done chatting and things are about to get ugly, he snaps his fingers and stops time.

It’s perfect, all of it. Aziraphale’s utterly ridiculous fussy clothes, the way he gasps Crowley’s name when he hears his voice. The way he turns around, a big smile on his face, and seems both irritated and _thrilled_ with the way Crowley looks.

The demon raises an eyebrow, and their banter begins. A dance perfected over the course of millennia, ending with Aziraphale’s lovely lips pursed for a moment before he offers to buy Crowley lunch to thank him, a glint in his eye.

The crepes are as good as promised. The company is better.

And then, he makes the stupid, stupid decision to walk Aziraphale back to the room the angel is renting. The night in Paris is quiet after all the commotion of the day, and dark – only a sliver of moon lights the cobblestones under their feet as they walk through the deserted streets. 

They’re pleasantly tipsy, and Crowley feels tingly all the way down to his fingertips. He shoves his disobedient hands, itching to reach out and touch, deep into his pockets. Aziraphale’s smile is easy and warm, he’s prattling on about something and his voice has taken on a quieter, softer quality. Crowley has never felt more like a snake than when he looks at the angel and thinks about how much being around Aziraphale feels like sleeping in a comfortable spot in the sun.

He almost bumps into the angel when Aziraphale stops abruptly in front of a building and unlocks a door.

The alley is dark, and Aziraphale hesitates on the doorstep. Crowley’s heart is in his throat as he hears Aziraphale take a deep breath.

“Come inside?” He asks, simply. Crowley nods.

The door closes behind them. The hallway inside looks… _off,_ like it used to be much more decorated but everything has been taken away in a haste, stripping the walls naked and getting rid of all the knick-knacks on the furniture.

But Crowley only has a moment to look because Aziraphale takes a step closer. Tilts his chin up. Closes his eyes.

_Closes his eyes._

Crowley doesn’t so much lean down to kiss him as he collides into him, a puppet on a string, and this time there’s no excuse to be doing this. There’s no play they’re mocking, not enough alcohol in their bloodstream to justify this behaviour. He brings a shaky hand to Aziraphale’s burning cheek and starts kissing into his mouth, and the angel’s lips part for him so easily, so naturally, he forgets for a moment that they’re hereditary enemies.

That they’re always watched. That they could be seen.

_Just a moment more._

Aziraphale makes a desperate sound against his tongue and Crowley’s hand slides to the back of the angel’s head, grips his hair, and Aziraphale fists his shirt, and Crowley realises – he can’t let him go. Not again. It might be another five hundred years before he gets the chance to kiss him once more.

But then, Aziraphale is stepping back and so Crowley does too, stuffs his heart back down into his ribcage and digs his nails into the palms of his hands. He can, actually, let him go – if Aziraphale asks him to.

First and foremost, they’re _friends,_ and he would never—

Aziraphale turns back to lock the door. With a snap of his fingers, changes his clothes – which almost makes Crowley laugh out loud. Leave it to the angel to have his priorities in order. But the thought of laughter dies as soon as he realises that Aziraphale has changed into something unusual. Something that looks just like his clothes in the Bastille, but all wrong: red and black and scarlet.

Crowley’s colours.

Without turning back to face him, Aziraphale tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck.

Crowley closes the short distance between them and presses him right against the door as he sinks his teeth into the skin offered to him.

He reaches up with a trembling hand, covers the angel’s closed eyes as his other hand undoes buttons and fastenings and any other blessed human invention that keeps him from reaching the angel’s hot skin.

He presses his open hand over Aziraphale’s heart. It’s beating so hard – funny how they don’t even technically need a beating heart, but a few millennia on this earth and it’s unthinkable to let go of the human habits they picked up along the way.

He slides his hand across Aziraphale’s chest, presses his nose in the hair behind the angel’s ear, breaths him in. God, Satan, he’s wanted him so much, for so long.

When his fingertips find a nipple, Aziraphale shivers in his arms. The angel grabs Crowley’s wrist, drags the demon’s hand from his eyes down to his mouth. He keeps his eyes closed as he parts his lips, his tongue sliding out to rub against the tip of Crowley’s fingers before Aziraphale takes them into his mouth and begins to suck them, and Crowley – fuck, he almost comes in his breeches right there and then. In fact, he’s been pressing his _very_ hard cock into the angel’s back for a whole minute now, there is no way Aziraphale has missed it.

Is he hard too? Crowley aches to know.

He grips the angel’s hip with the hand that isn’t currently busy in Aziraphale’s mouth. Can he—is he allowed to touch? Somehow, even though Aziraphale has always been the one resisting, pulling away, refusing to _look,_ he’s much less hesitant now, while Crowley can’t shut off the voice in his head that tells him to hold back, take it slow, not scare the angel away – as if he was dealing with a feral cat that might run off or bite at any moment.

He breathes him in again, and Aziraphale’s smell makes his head spin. He nibbles at his salt-sweet skin, marvels at the taste. He could spend a small eternity on Aziraphale’s neck and it would be time well spent. Aziraphale rubs the flat of his tongue against his fingertips, and Crowley grips his hip harder, pushing their bodies closer together.

He should stop. _He should stop._ Surely this is too much. Forget the heartache of Aziraphale closing his eyes whenever they get too close – the angel will never look him in the eyes again at all if he doesn’t stop.

He lets go of Aziraphale’s hip but, just as he’s moving away, the angel grips him at the wrist and guides his hand down between his legs.

 _Fucking heaven and hell,_ Aziraphale is just as hard as him. And— _thick._ Enough to fill the palm of his hand. The fact that there’s a few layers of clothing still between them is a goddamn disgrace, so Crowley moves quickly to open the angel’s breeches and sneak his hand inside.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ Aziraphale is hard and thick and also leaking profusely. Crowley makes a desperate noise against his skin as he jerks him off, but immediately realises – no, this won’t be enough. He needs to be on his knees. He needs to feel the weight of that cock on his tongue. He hasn’t worshipped anything in a long, long time, but—if it kills him, he’s going to worship Aziraphale tonight.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs, his voice heavy and cracked, and maybe he didn’t even need to say it. But Aziraphale, his face turned up towards the ceiling, his eyes shut tight against the night, swallows and nods.

Crowley turns him around, pushes the angel’s back against the front door – falls to his knees with a thud.

When he glances up, Aziraphale has his hands balled into fists, his chest heaving with shallow, quick breaths.

 _Keep your eyes closed, angel,_ he thinks as he presses his tongue against the head of his cock, _just like this._

It’s still Aziraphale’s taste, but it’s more intense now, and there’s something bitter about it. Crowley tries his damned best to commit every single detail to memory.

 _Keep your eyes closed,_ he repeats in his mind as he leaves messy kisses along the length of his cock.

 _Keep your eyes closed,_ as he takes him into his mouth, enjoying the stretch in his jaw, the weight on his tongue.

 _Keep your eyes closed,_ as Aziraphale bottoms out, buried to the hilt in Crowley’s throat, the demon’s nose pressed to the coarse hair above his cock.

 _Keep your eyes closed_ as he sucks and moves and keeps Aziraphale pinned to the door with both hands, as the angel reaches out to lay his palms on Crowley’s burnt copper hair – a blessing.

 _Keep your eyes closed, just a little more_ as he gives it all he’s got, bobbing his head, spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth, his own cock aching, untouched, trapped in the snug confines of his clothes. He won’t touch himself. No, everything he has right now is for Aziraphale and for Aziraphale alone.

The angel comes with a strangled cry, a hand flying to his mouth to muffle the noise – _no, give it all to me,_ Crowley thinks, desperately, ridiculously – _let me hear all of it, grip my hair, let me taste all of you,_ _let me—_

He too closes his eyes as he swallows, and it seems to go on and on before, weakly, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s forehead, gently asking him to pull away.

Crowley does, and Aziraphale’s back slides against the door until he’s down on the floor too. He’s panting, and he presses the palm of his hands against his eyes.

Crowley wants nothing more than to kiss him again. To be kissed, to be told he’s done well.

He’s a fool.

Aziraphale sucks his lips in, his throat bobbing as if – as if he’s trying not to cry, and Crowley can’t take it. He can deal with getting nothing in return – that’s easy, isn’t it? He’s been through much worse – but he can’t have Aziraphale sobbing on the dirty floor of a Parisian building in the middle of the night. If it kills him, he won’t let it happen.

So he snaps his fingers. Cleans them, laces them up again. With a wistful smile, decides to change Aziraphale’s clothing back to a pale blue-grey hue, the colour of a sky filled with heavy clouds about to rain.

Gently, ever so gently, he takes Aziraphale’s hands away from his face, tugs at them, helps him up from the floor.

He clears his throat (he tastes Aziraphale on his tongue).

“Right, I should go.” Good, it’s good, he’s making himself sound almost normal. “And for the record, angel – I stand by my point that those crepes weren’t worth getting discorporated for.”

“Paperwork,” Aziraphale replies weakly, absurdly. Then he blinks his eyes open, takes in the room, how normal it all looks, how his clothes have changed from black and scarlet to blue and grey. He smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “There would have been a lot of paperwork, that is.” Then, he looks up at Crowley. “I’m so very thankful.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley replies in a growl, “You know I’d be in trouble if anyone heard.”

“Right, yes.” Aziraphale takes a short, determined breath. He becomes steadier by the moment. _Good, angel, don’t cry on me now._ “I’ll be back in London shortly, anyway.”

“To work on your bookshop?” Crowley asks, an eyebrow raised over his tiny glasses.

“I-I’d like to open at the turn of the century, yes. For good luck,” Aziraphale replies, moving away from the door so Crowley can open it and leave.

“I’ll write it down in my calendar.” The demon says, with a small, sarcastic bow before he walks by Aziraphale and swings the door open. “See you then, angel.”

“Goodbye, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, his voice shaking.

Crowley will pretend, for his own sanity, that he’s completely missed all the longing, fondness and remorse in those last three words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Silkbox's [goddamn gorgeous fanart](https://silkbox.tumblr.com/post/614358016994705408/chamyls-incredible-fanfic-dont-look-now-got) of this chapter, please please please. I am in awe.


	3. III

There’s a huge fight (a long time coming) over holy water, there’s a very long sleep and two World Wars. 

There’s a church and a bomb and a bag of books.

There’s a ride home in silence, and Aziraphale staring into the distance.

There’s a hand helping the angel out of the car, parked in front of the bookshop.

And there’s an angel clutching a bag of books to his chest like a drowning man to a lifeline.

“Come in?” Aziraphale asks once more, his voice thick and faint like a man who’s speaking from very far away.

“Ah, have to go home, I’m afraid,” Crowley replies, lifting a foot and showing the charred black sole of his shoe, “but tomorrow, yeah? You can buy me a drink.”

Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley waits. After a few seconds, the angel sighs, apparently giving up on whatever he was about to say, and smiles instead. “Tomorrow sounds all right.”

Crowley brings two fingers to his forehead and flicks them in salute. “See you then.”

He pretends not to notice that Aziraphale stays on the steps outside his bookshop as he gets in the car, turns on the engine, and drives off. He has to, because the look Aziraphale is giving him right now makes him want to go down on his knees again – and how’d that turn out for him last time?

Crowley likes to think he’s a bit more sophisticated than the other demons, and can contain two contrasting ideas in his mind. He doesn’t regret what he’s done. Not at all. But it wasn’t, in hindsight, a great idea.

A bad idea he does not regret at all. That’s what it was.

He goes home, dips his scorched feet in cold water, sighs in relief. Worth it. Absolutely, completely worth it.

With a snap of his fingers, he changes into his black silk pyjamas and slips into his bed. He only has a few hours left before the sun dawns and he’s more than deserved a nap.

He wakes up maybe half an hour later to the sound of his front door opening. For a moment, he thinks it might be another demon – then he hears a very quiet  _ thank you. _

He knows only one person who would thank a door for letting them in.

Crowley waits, his heart beating in his ears. If this were an emergency, Aziraphale would have called. He knows Crowley will always answer to him, even in the middle of the night. No, if he’s here… it’s because he  _ wants _ to be here. And that thought makes the demon’s head spin, and he’s so very thankful he’s in bed already—can’t fall from here. Not any more than he already has, anyway.

Aziraphale’s familiar silhouette appears behind the glass door to Crowley’s bedroom. A trembling hand pushes the sliding door open.

“A—”

The figure quickly brings a finger to his lips, and Crowley’s voice dies in his throat.

_ Oh. _

Aziraphale walks closer to the bed. Crowley makes room for him, tosses away the covers in invitation. The angel seems to consider him for a long moment, not moving at all. Then, Crowley hears him taking a deep breath and releasing it, closely followed by the shuffling of his clothes as he takes them off, drops them on the floor – his precious, treasured clothes, abandoned on the floor of a demon’s residence.

Aziraphale is undressing. Aziraphale is in his room in the middle of the night and he’s undressing, behind a paper-thin wall of plausible deniability. Crowley’s traitorous body is already hard at the thought.

When the angel slides into his bed, it’s a quiet affair, for all that it feels world changing. Aziraphale fits easily next to him, their heads sharing a single pillow. Aziraphale’s nose brushes against Crowley’s, and in the almost complete darkness – Crowley could swear the angel is smiling, that small, tender smile of his that is a little sad at the edges. The smile of someone who already knows, deep down, that there is no right choice here, no right answer, no way they’re getting out of this unbruised.

The demon wraps an arm around him, pulls him close. Feels Aziraphale’s undershirt under his fingers, feels he’s so very warm underneath. Oh, to hold him like this – he never considered it a possibility.

Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s for a moment. Then, he moves down.

He curls up to be able to kiss Crowley’s Adam’s apple (no irony lost there), slowly undoes the buttons of Crowley’s pyjama shirt, gets his hands underneath it, spreads it open. Little by little, Crowley turns to lie on his back and Aziraphale follows, straddling him as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on his collarbone, all around his left nipple, along the trail of dark hair that leads to his navel, farther down, until he encounters the waistband of Crowley’s pyjama bottoms.

Crowley raises his fingers to snap them, but Aziraphale stops him with a quick hand. Then, slowly, he drags Crowley’s bottoms down along his thighs, over his knees, off his feet. He comes back up and does it all over again with Crowley’s underwear.

No one has been this gentle with Crowley since… ever. No one has ever been this gentle with Crowley. And yet the delicate, slow, careful touches of Aziraphale’s fingers on his hips and legs are setting him on fire, somehow so very torturous to bear. By the time Aziraphale is done undressing him from the waist down, the demon is clutching at the pillow behind his head, grateful that the dark won’t show how hard is face is burning as he shamelessly lets his legs fall open for his angel, desperate to be touched.

Aziraphale takes his time. He begins by kissing the side of Crowley’s sharp knee, trailing down along his inner thigh, and it seems like the world has completed a full revolution around its axis before the angel’s warm breath falls on the wet tip of Crowley’s cock.

He can feel he’s made a mess of himself. Too excited, too eager, too dumbfounded by this waking dream to make himself wait. But then, it hardly matters, because Aziraphale closes his lovely lips around his cock and sucks him clean.

Crowley’s spine arches as far as it’ll go and then he comes, immediately, inevitably, with not a word of warning for his—

_ Lover? _

_ Enemy?  _

_ Partner in crime? _

For his  _ friend, _ if nothing else, his best friend in the whole universe.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem bothered, not at all - keeps moving in time with Crowley’s writhing, works him through it, accepts him so completely that Crowley can’t help but let go entirely.

When he drops back onto the bed he’s gasping for breath, and Aziraphale strokes his thigh, soothingly, then comes up to cup his cheek in his hot, soft hand.

Crowley isn’t sure whether it’s a curse or a blessing that, in the dark, they can’t see well each other’s expressions. He’d like to commit to memory every line on Aziraphale’s face – he’d rather not be seen so open, so vulnerable, so fucking in love with someone he will never be able to wholly have.

Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley wishes there was a way to take this moment and keep it forever, preserve it in amber and wear it around his neck.

The angel brushes his ruffled hair away from his forehead, presses a kiss to his temple, and all Crowley can think is  _ more, please, more. _ He wraps his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, angles his hips – unmistakably asking, and very aware of it.

_ Please, please, please. _

Aziraphale lets out a shuddering breath, shakes his head. Crowley takes that as a no, begins to pull back – but Aziraphale stops him. Positions himself between his legs, presses the head of his cock to him. Sneaks a hand between their bodies, touches the tip of his index finger along the rim of the demon’s entrance, and suddenly Crowley is miraculously loose and empty. He instinctively bucks his hips up and Aziraphale slides into him easy as anything.

Crowley fights against the need to keep moving, to press the heels of his feet into Aziraphale’s back and invite him farther inside him, fights the urge to force the angel’s cock to bottom out inside him  _ now, now, now. _ He grips the pillow until his knuckles turn white instead, loses control of the words tumbling out of his mouth.

_ “Please,  _ fuck, _ please— _ come _ on, just—” _

But never once does he say  _ angel _ or  _ Aziraphale.  _ He thinks those two words, over and over and over, but doesn’t say them.

_ Aziraphale, my angel. _

So this is what Aziraphale feels like inside him. Thick, a stretch that’s almost painful and yet not at all. Gentle, barely moving to give him time to adjust, bringing Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles, caressing the back of the demon’s thigh in a comforting motion.

_ “Please,” _ Crowley sobs, reduced to begging, and finally Aziraphale presses in farther, slides into him until he can’t go anymore.

_ Oh. _

_ Oh God. _

There is no possible way this could be wrong. It can’t be.

The fact that they’re not allowed to do this – that’s what’s wrong. Without a doubt.

But Aziraphale – he feels perfect. And Crowley – too hungry, too eager – wants – needs –  _ more. _

The angel starts to thrust, and all of Crowley’s coherent thoughts melt away. He doesn’t really have any expectations for this – just keep Aziraphale between his legs for as long as he’s allowed to, maybe rut against a warm hand or thigh until he comes – it’s the angel who decides that won’t do. That won’t do – despite the darkness, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s gaze completely focused on him as the angel shifts, tries slightly different angles, goes faster and slower and harder until he finds  _ it _ – the perfect way to knock the breath out of Crowley’s desperate lungs.

If Crowley had to compare it to anything, insofar as his huddled mind is able to come up with any metaphor right now – he would say it’s like a shock of lightning. Electric warmth, spreading from deep inside his body to every corner of him, to his hands to his toes to the tips of his ears. Like gulping down a glass of champagne and feeling it bubble at the back of his throat, but tenfold. Like coming in from the outside, frozen all the way down to his old blessed bones, and stepping into the steam and heat of a scalding shower.

Aziraphale is thanking him. For – saving his books. For more than that, maybe. It’s crystal clear to Crowley in that moment, as the angel doggedly focuses on giving him as much as he possibly can. 

Crowley props himself up on his elbows, almost bends himself in two to kiss him, and can’t quite keep the grin off his face as he does. There’s nothing to be surprised about – this is who Aziraphale has always been. Dedicated to doing what’s best, stubborn to a fault – Crowley would know, he’s clashed with him enough times.

Finding roundabout ways to get what he wants without getting himself in trouble, too. That’s an  _ incredibly _ Aziraphale thing to do, and Crowley finds himself grateful for whatever time they get to spend together, even if the angel will look at him only through the dark.

Thing is – Crowley would never want Aziraphale to Fall for him. Not with a capital  _ f. _ If there existed a safe place the demon could whisk them away to, he would. But there isn’t. Not on this earth.

And then Aziraphale wraps his fingers around Crowley’s cock and tugs, soft but fast and relentless, and it’s no time at all before Crowley is clinging to him with all he’s got, pleading to him to  _ keep going, keep going, just like this – keep going and never ever stop, please, please, please –  _ and then he’s coming again with a long, low sound that fills the room, and soon after Aziraphale is kissing him, wet and deep, and Crowley moans around his tongue.

There’s never been anything better than this. There can’t be anything better than this.

He realises Aziraphale is releasing inside him only when the angel closes his hand around his thigh and grips it tight, and Crowley lets his eyes close, lets himself enjoy it, memorise what it feels like to have Aziraphale come inside him.

The angel falls on his chest and Crowley runs a hand through his hair, Aziraphale’s panting breath tickling his armpit, his shoulder. How – how weird, how unfamiliar. And yet pleasant.

Slowly, gently, Aziraphale slides out of his body, looks at him for a long moment. He makes a small, choked sound, finds and grips his hand. Crowley is not sure how he understands – maybe almost six thousand years of being friends helps – but he knows, in that moment, that Aziraphale is trying to apologise.

No. No no  _ no. _ The angel has nothing to apologise for. This can’t be something that they’ll look back at with regret.

“Thank you,” Crowley mutters, bringing Aziraphale’s hand to his cheek. They don’t thank each other, usually –  _ can’t, _ really. But he can make an exception here.

The angel breathes out, his shoulders dropping, and Crowley could bet he’s smiling now. They settle together under the covers, sharing Crowley’s pillow, and, against all odds, the demon falls asleep almost immediately, an arm swung over Aziraphale’s waist, his face nestled against his neck.

He wakes up to the angel shifting in his arms. It’s right before the first rays of dawn, and the faint light over London is tinted blue. It feels vaguely like being submerged underwater. Aziraphale kisses his forehead, disentangles himself, stands up and begins to get dressed.

Of course. It’s time.

_ “Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I,” _ the demon recites from memory, smiling at the runaway angel, _ “it is some meteor that the sun exhales to be to thee this night a torchbearer, and light thee on thy way.” _

Aziraphale smiles back, surely remembering the passage from Romeo and Juliet when Juliet tries to convince Romeo it’s not morning yet, and therefore he does not yet have to leave her.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley on the lips one last time before stepping out of his room.

After that, it’s several months before they see each other again – having reprised the Arrangement when the War ended.

“I thought you only liked the funny ones,” Aziraphale says, completely out of the blue, as they walk together through the city centre, blending among the crowds.

“Well,” Crowley replies, taken aback and then smirking as soon as he realises what Aziraphale is referring to, “I do. With a few honourable exceptions.”

The corner of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle as he gives him a quick glance and smiles, and then proceeds to instruct him on the blessings Crowley will do in his place.


	4. IV

The world has been saved.

When they get up from the bench, both of them returned to their own bodies, Aziraphale can’t stop smiling, and Crowley can’t either, although he tries to keep it at least somewhat subtle.

And then, on their way to the Ritz, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and drags him into the phone box at the cross between Berkeley Street and Mayfair Place and proceeds to kiss the living daylights out of him.

Good thing Crowley doesn’t need to breathe.

Then, smiling so hard he could light up a city, the angel walks out, and Crowley follows, his glasses crooked on his nose, his hair in disarray, and a beatific, dazzled expression on his face.

Lunch at the Ritz is – well, lunch at the Ritz. Lunch at the Ritz after you’ve saved the world, and all of humanity, and are finally free from your abusive bosses and can let yourself love the love of your life out in the open.

Which is to say – well, it’s pretty damn  _ glorious. _

When they’re done, Crowley peers at Aziraphale over his dark glasses. “What are you in the mood for, now?” He asks, thinking he knows the answer already.

But Aziraphale surprises him once again. He leans closer, lowers his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t quite tell you here. Would you—could you bring me back to yours?”

Crowley blinks three times in a row as his brain trips and fails to process what the angel is implying, until it does. Oh, but he could so very easily get used to this bold, enthusiastic Aziraphale.

He almost tosses his matte black credit card at the waiter in his rush to get them out of there.

When they get to his apartment, his mouth goes dry at the first mischievous glance Aziraphale throws his way. 

“What now?” He asks, his voice hoarse as he abandons his glasses on the desk.

“Well,” Aziraphale smiles, stepping closer and running the back of his warm hand along Crowley’s cheek, “I was thinking we could… oh, my dear. Bit overdue, isn’t it? I’m afraid I find myself quite overwhelmed.”

“Yes,” Crowley breathes out. It is overdue. They’ve been waiting for so long, and now… God and Satan, there are  _ so many _ things they can do now. Endless possibilities. They just need to pick something to start with. “Hey. Is there anything—something in particular you’ve always wanted to try?”

Aziraphale opens his lips to speak but doesn’t say anything, just blushes furiously and averts his gaze.

_ So there is something. _

“What is it?” Crowley asks, softly. “Angel?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale replies, keeping his eyes pinned to the floor – and yet has a little smile on his face. Crowley has known him for thousands of years and recognises the signs: these are the angel’s token protests before he gives up and asks for what he wants. “It’s quite embarrassing, really.”

“No, it isn’t,” Crowley shoots back, although he’s aware he should probably hear what Aziraphale has in mind before saying so.

“Well…” the angel mutters, then clears his throat. “I… I would like to see as much as possible, I suppose. Since, since we can now. If you’d like.”

“Sure, yes.” Crowley replies. Then, he furrows his brow as he realises he has no idea what Aziraphale is talking about. “What exactly would I like?”

“Right.” The angel gives a short sigh. “You’re right, I have to be much more explicit, or you couldn’t possibly imagine… well. I would—oh, dear.”

“We have all the time in the world, angel.” Crowley reminds him, gently. “Literally.”

“Yes, yes we do.” Aziraphale grins. He takes a deep breath, tries again. “And what I would like is… to see you—or well,  _ watch _ you, really. As you… by yourself. What I mean is—I could sit a bit farther away and just… watch. I-if you’re amenable, that is.”

“Uh,” Crowley replies eloquently, while the angel elects to stare at his own feet. If Crowley is not getting his wires crossed, Aziraphale is… asking to watch him as he gets himself off?

Well.

It’s…

Well.

He’s never thought about this.

How is it that he’s supposed to be the most imaginative between the two of them, and yet he’s never thought about this? Of all the million fantasies he’s had, he’s never imagined Aziraphale would want to – to watch him while he…

Fuck.

The thought is… well, yes, it’s appealing.

But can he even do that? 

“Would you join me, afterwards?” He asks, and does not like one bit how needy his voice sounds.

“Oh, dearest mine,” Aziraphale sighs, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Of course. Of course I would. But you don’t have to do it, not at all. It was just a—a completely inappropriate fantasy I had, it’s not as if—”

“No, wait. Let’s try.” Crowley interrupts him, and Aziraphale looks at him with both eyebrows raised. “I want to try,” The demon repeats, beginning to tug him towards the bedroom. “Come on.”

“Crowley, I mean it, I don’t want you to—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley grits out, stopping and turning back to look at him in the eyes, “I’ve been waiting for centuries—if not  _ millennia _ for this moment. Let me try this.”

“I—yes, all right,” Aziraphale finally relents, “but we’re stopping the moment you’re uncomfortable, am I clear?”

“Transparent,” the demon replies, a smirk on his face as he walks into his bedroom and shrugs the jacket off his shoulders.

He only realises he’s never actually undressed in front of Aziraphale when he sees the look on the angel’s face. How strange, isn’t it? Aziraphale has been inside him, but he’s never seen him naked.

They shouldn’t even have any qualms about these corporations of theirs, and yet… after a certain time on earth, any entity would start beating their heart and breathing with their unnecessary lungs and feel somewhat embarrassed at their own nakedness. Because it’s what humans do.

And there is no way taking his clothes off in front of Aziraphale, in this context, could not be charged.

He takes off the thin scarf around his neck, undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. Aziraphale swallows.

Crowley tosses the waistcoat aside, reaches over his shoulders and drags the Henley off his back. Aziraphale parts his lips, his cheeks colouring as he stares at the demon, and Crowley has never felt more beautiful and wanted in his entire existence.

And bare. Definitely bare. Particularly as he takes off his black undershirt and undoes the belt buckle of his jeans. He slides the belt out of its loops, discards it. He can see the goosebumps on his own arms, shivers a little at being so exposed.

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, rushing to take off his own jacket.

Crowley watches him as the angel miracles a plush armchair – that clashes completely with the bedroom’s style (and Crowley doesn’t even mind) – and leaves his jacket, waistcoat and bowtie on its back.

When Aziraphale begins undoing the buttons at his wrists to take off his shirt, Crowley’s knees shake a little. The angel briefly glances at him, blushes even harder at whatever he spots on the demon’s face.

Then, leaving it mostly unbuttoned, he takes off his shirt and extends it for Crowley to take.

“You could wear this... if you’d like.”

Crowley takes the shirt in his hands and looks at it dumbly for a moment. It smells so much like Aziraphale that his serpent tongue darts out for a moment to taste it. If Crowley wears it, he will smell like Aziraphale all over. And isn’t that a  _ thought? _

Slowly, he puts it on, suddenly extremely sensitive to the drag of soft fabric against his heated skin.

Socks and shoes he miracles off. Then, he slowly slides the jeans down his legs and steps out of them. He’s not wearing any underwear, but Aziraphale’s shirt is just long enough to cover him.

“Oh my dear, you’re so beautiful,” the angel sighs, then seems to realise what he’s just said and closes his mouth, dragging his eyes away from Crowley’s thighs and back to his face.

“Could you say that again?” Crowley croaks out, blood rushing to his cheeks, heat rushing between his legs.

A complicated sequence of expressions crosses Aziraphale’s face: surprise, embarrassment, determination, pride, fondness, happiness. He steps closer, kissing him on the corner of his lips. “You are so incredibly beautiful, my love,” he whispers against Crowley’s cheek.

The demon shivers and bites his bottom lip, the praise sending sparks down his spine.

Aziraphale does love his beautiful things. And once he finds something he likes, he’ll keep it forever, no matter if it goes out of fashion or shows signs of wear.

Crowley decides he wouldn’t mind being kept forever, not at all – and kisses him deeply as he slowly leads them backwards, until the back of his legs hit the mattress. Without letting go of Aziraphale, he climbs up, standing on his knees.

He’s almost completely hard by now, and the small noise the angel makes inside his mouth finishes the job.

“Sit back, angel,” he nuzzles Aziraphale’s cheek with his nose, “and keep talking to me.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look like he wants to stop touching him at all, but slowly steps back, “right. Yes.” He makes his way to the armchair he miracled into existence, takes off his undershirt, and sits down, chest bare.

Crowley sits back on his haunches, closes his eyes. He runs his hands up and down his legs, from his knees to his thighs, feeling rather than seeing his cock peeking out of the shirt.

It is familiar, sitting on his bed with his eyes closed and a straining erection because of Aziraphale. But this is the first time the angel is here with him, and it ignites something inside Crowley that makes him spread his thighs wider, give Aziraphale a better look at what he’s got.

He hears the angel sighing quietly from his spot on the armchair. Crowley presses his cheek into his own shoulder, Aziraphale’s smell making his head spin. He slowly runs his hands down his chest, over the shirt, thumbs his nipples and continues downward, fidgets with the very last button of the shirt before undoing it, and then does the same to the one above it for good measure.

Finally, he takes himself in hand and hears Aziraphale gasp. He swallows, beginning to move much, much more slowly than he ever would if he were alone. But he isn’t, and Aziraphale asked him to watch, so – he’s going to do his best to give him a good fucking show.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, and Crowley opens his eyes. The angel is leaning towards him, his hands on his knees. Straining towards him on the edge of the chair.

Once again, Crowley has never felt more desired.

He strokes faster. This is surreal. He has never even dreamed about a moment like this – because he could never imagine it happening. But here they are – Aziraphale, in his bedroom. Aziraphale, who can’t peel his eyes off him. Aziraphale, cheeks flushed and chest bare and apple bite green gaze alight with want.

Crowley can’t bear the sight, lest this be all over in a few seconds. He shuts his eyes again and squeezes the tip of his cock between the palm of his hand and his thumb.

“My dear… my dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, the armchair creaking under his shifting weight, “I never imagined… oh, Crowley. You are  _ gorgeous.” _

__

Crowley can’t answer in anything but a noise straight from his throat, his cock throbbing in his hand.

__

“I know I said I wanted to watch, but… would you terribly mind if I—”

__

_ “Angel,” _ Crowley grits out, “come here right now.”

__

It takes Aziraphale two long strides to reach him, two heartbeats to have his hands in his fire red hair, two kisses along the pulse point at his neck to have Crowley moan loud and lean back, dragging the angel down on top of him.

__

Aziraphale is rock hard in his trousers, and Crowley immediately hurries to unbutton them, take him in hand, luxuriate in running his fingers along the heavy length of him. The angel straddles him and presses down, and Crowley decides to get both their cocks in his grasp. Aziraphale makes a beautiful noise around his tongue and Crowley bucks his hips, rubbing up against him.

__

He realises very quickly that he won’t last long at all – then realises –  _ it doesn’t matter. _ This is not a once-in-a-blue-moon encounter. He doesn’t need to savour it, to make it last as long as he possibly can. They can do this again tomorrow. Or later tonight. Or in two minutes, even. Hell, they can live together if that’s what they want, have sex every single night if they’re so inclined. They can share a bed, and it’s going to be so easy from now on – to reach out and touch Aziraphale, whenever he wants and the angel wants him too. It’ll be so… so irrevocably easy.

__

So Crowley lets go. He pumps his hand hard and fast, meeting the movements of Aziraphale’s hips grinding against him, and when the angel comes it’s hot and wet and perfect and all over his chest, and Crowley – follows him without a second thought, lets go completely. 

__

No fall has ever been this soft before.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click next chapter to read the little epilogue to this! ✨


	5. Coda

Crowley wakes up to whistling in his kitchen and grins – of course the bastard learned to whistle. If the humans do something annoying, Aziraphale will pick up on it in no time at all.

Hell, he’s not even good at it.

“You’re supposed to put on an apron,” he smirks, leaning against the kitchen door frame and watching Aziraphale stirring something into a large bowl, with flour imprints all over his trousers and sweater. “Humans do, you know?”

“Oh… right,” the angel replies, miracling on a robin egg blue apron on himself.

“That’s cheating, angel. A human would have washed their hands and put it on.”

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, holding up the bowl so he can turn towards the demon and smile at him, “I’ve always wondered what your hair would look like if you were to use a regular brush instead of a miracle.”

“Point taken,” Crowley shrugs as he saunters to the nearest chair and sits down. “So, what’s with this? What are you doing?”

“Pancakes!” Aziraphale replies, gleefully.

“All right. And  _ what _ are you doing?” Crowley replies, an eyebrow raised and his bare golden gaze on the angel’s face.

Aziraphale comes to sit at the table, bringing the bowl along with him. 

He says something, but the demon gets distracted when realises Aziraphale must have used Crowley soap, because he  _ smells like him _ . And the thought that the angel would smell like him is… well. 

“Sorry, what?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I was wondering…” he sighs. “My dear, have you ever thought about your future, since you were stationed here on Earth?”

“I haven’t,” Crowley mutters, “seemed rather pointless, didn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale nods seriously, then smiles, “but now… now I can do what I want. And therefore, I don’t know what my future will be. I can decide to travel or to learn to knit, or to—to take piano classes, or—”

“Learn how to cook,” Crowley finishes for him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, extending a hand white with flour, “seemed like the most human thing to start with.”

Crowley takes his hand and squeezes. He feels a new, unfamiliar kind happiness bubbling up in his chest. Finally, he drops his shoulders, lets it pass through him, and smiles back. “Yes. It really does.”

He doesn’t mention falling in love is the most human thing to start with.

They’re already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, THANK YOU for coming along for this ride! This has been a hell of a week and all your comments made me smile a lot, which was so very much needed 💕
> 
> Up next, I'm working on something for [The Bond Zine](https://www.instagram.com/thebondzine/) (link NSFW!). All proceeds go to charity, and preorders should open at the beginning of May - things are, understandably, a bit vague atm. Stay tuned.
> 
> Also if you're bored, catch me shitposting non-stop on [my tumblr](https://chamyl.tumblr.com/) ✌

**Author's Note:**

> Posting schedule:  
> Chapter 1 - friday 20  
> Chapter 2 - sunday 22  
> Chapter 3 - tuesday 24  
> Chapter 4 and epilogue - friday 27  
> Around 7PM CET (2PM EDT)


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